


Poker

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't let Sherlock near the generator, Don't play poker with a man named Holmes, M/M, Poker, matches both paper and wooden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:18:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I locked all four boys in a house with no power to make them do this. So that now you may see a glimpse of a happier moment in the childhoods of Sherlock and Mycroft, or what the rest of the world might recognize as "terror," as it involves those two and a deck of cards. How do you handicap Mycroft?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poker

John and Greg met again in the hallway. “Anything?” Greg asked.

John shook his head and shrugged. “Back-up generator’s out. Maybe Sherlock would know...”

Greg laughed and shook his head, wagging a finger. “No, no, no. He’s not going anywhere _near_ the generator. Would you feel safe with him down there, up to his elbows in fuel and moving parts?”

John smiled briefly, but agreed. “Besides, if he could fix it, he’d be down there already.”

“Yeah. Should we...?” 

John shrugged, and followed him back in.

Sherlock was sitting at the table, staring into the flame of one of the candles, his palms pressed together, fingers aligned against his lips. Mycroft was standing in front of the empty fireplace, his hands in his pockets, staring at...nothing. Greg had the impression that there had been some kind of argument, but rarely did the two brothers end up in silence. Usually their fights started with short sentences, one-word answers, and glaring, and progressed to the kind of obscure button-pushing that left bystanders terrified.

“Back-up generator seems to be...missing some parts,” John said carefully.

Mycroft turned back to them with a smile and a deep breath. “Yes. I thought as much.”

“She asked me to,” Sherlock growled quietly.

“I don’t think she asked you to break the generator so much as to fix the pump.”

“I couldn’t do one without the other.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to obtain parts through some more usual method, such as buying them?”

“I had to be in Cuba in twelve hours. There wouldn’t -”

“Just stop,” Greg cut in. “It isn’t winter, we’re not going to die from exposure. Just means everybody’s phones are going to stay dead, and we’re stuck here till morning.” He crossed to the table and pulled out a chair next to Sherlock’s. 

John followed, a bit more leisurely. “So. I Spy, anyone?”

Sherlock snorted quietly, and Greg looked from John to Sherlock and back, before he realised. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’ve actually done that,” he asked John in disbelief.

“Be surprised how dull it can be waiting under a hedge for half a day.” He smiled briefly. “I learned all sorts of biological classifications I hadn’t known before.”

“You’re a medical man. I assumed you’d prefer them.”

“Yeah, but I don’t usually have to operate on _coccinellidae.”_ He looked up at Greg, whose lips were working silently. “Ladybirds.”

“Didn’t you say you found some games in a cupboard?” Greg asked, missing John’s wince until it was too late. He shrugged an apology.

“No, Greg,” Mycroft said firmly. “Sherlock has killed over less.”

“It was only the board,” John said, in the tones of someone who had had this argument before and didn’t expect it to ever end. 

“John, what you don’t know about your flatmate would -”

“Mycroft,” Greg cut him off, warningly. Mycroft subsided, and sat down in the chair by the fire. Technically, it was the closest chair, but then again it had its back to all of them, so Greg took that as the salient point.

“Right, then,” John said quietly, catching Greg’s eye. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cards. “Ever played pinochle?” he asked Greg quietly, sliding the cards out and beginning to shuffle.

“God no. Who plays pinochle? I suppose you picked it up in hospital, yeah? Little old ladies?”

“Actually, I learned it in Afghanistan, killing time in a tank.”

Greg snorted and shook his head. “Stake-outs, we tend more towards poker.”

“Poker?” John’s face lit up. “Right.”

“Deal me in,” Sherlock said suddenly, pushing the candle away.

John glanced up at him, startled. “You want to...play.”

Sherlock shrugged, little more than a flicker of eyebrow and eyelid. “Unless you’ve become much better at bluffing.”

“Oh, dear God.” John slapped the deck down on the table. “I don’t mind losing, but we’re not playing for money, and _you_ aren’t allowed to gloat.”

Greg grinned. “Oh, good. _Good._ This should be fun.” He leaned forward. “What are we going to use as chips, then?”

John held up one finger and reached into another pocket, pulling out a box of matches. He shook it, then slid it open. “Well, we won’t be able to play for long. I don’t suppose either of you...?”

Greg glanced aside at Sherlock. It was a mistake, but at least Sherlock had made the same one, meeting Greg’s eyes. They both reluctantly produced books of paper matches. “But I thought...” John began, reaching across for Greg’s.

“It’s just the matches,” Greg said firmly. He could hear Mycroft shifting in his seat, and while he probably wouldn’t dream of turning around to glare, Greg still didn’t want to look over and find out he was wrong about that. “It’s just habit, and there have been times when they’re useful.”

“Yeah?” John pressed. “When? For what?”

“Well, sometimes at night... like, on a stake out, or when we’re in pursuit...”

“Don’t give me that,” John waved it off. “Where in London has it ever been too dark to see at night? And anyway, your mobile’s got better light, and you don’t worry about burning your fingers.”

“What happens if the battery’s dead, eh?”

“So you’re alone in basements with a dead phone a lot, are you? Don’t you have a DS?”

“Yeah, but...”

“Oh, leave him alone, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “If he were smoking again, he’d have more than just matches on him, and he wouldn’t have dared produce the matches in front of us if he had cigarettes as well. Besides, Mycroft would never allow it.”

“Now that is true,” Greg said, grabbing the lifeline offered. “You can frisk me if you like, John, but it’s true. I’m not even using the patches anymore.”

“Well done,” John said mildly. He ripped the matches out of both books, and divided them into three piles. “Paper is one, wood is five?”

“Joining us, Mycroft?” Sherlock called suddenly.

“Does it look like it?” Greg laughed, glancing aside.

“No, thank you,” Mycroft’s voice drifted over, once again expressionless.

“Then don’t listen,” Sherlock said, his voice going sharp. “And no breathing.”

Greg stared back and forth, from John to Sherlock to the back of Mycroft’s chair. “Come on, it’s not like you expect him to hold his breath...!”

“True. Maybe you should leave the room,” Sherlock suggested brightly.

“I dunno what this is,” John told Greg. “But I should warn you that Sherlock is a bloody bastard.”

“Relax, John. I’ve always covered the rent for you.”

“You let him clean you out?” Greg gawped. “Jesus, John, you’ve really got a problem. Maybe we shouldn’t.”

“Holy...! For God’s sake, Sherlock!” John pursed his lips, and started again. “No. No, it wasn’t like that. All I said was that there was no way that Sherlock was going to clean me out, and...” He paused, gathering himself.

“Yes? Go on,” Sherlock coaxed, smug and bitingly sarcastic.

“I said that I would eat my paycheck if he could beat my hand.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “You didn’t. What did you have?”

John chewed his lip a moment, then said, “Natural house, queens and kings.”

Greg whistled appreciatively. “And Sherlock?

Another pause. “Four twos. On a three-card draw.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “Fucking hell.”

“As I said, I covered the rent. I don’t know why he’s still upset.”

“Okay.” Greg slapped his palms on the table. “No irrational bets. Matches, or you’re out, got it?”

“Right. Dealer calls, but let’s all remember we’re here for a while, and try to make it last, eh?”

Within half an hour, John had had to borrow from both Sherlock and Greg. It wasn’t that he’d had bad hands; more that he was playing against a DI from the Met, and Sherlock Holmes. As a concession, they had raided the kitchen and added cutlery to the pot. Soon after, John was down two spoons to Greg, and three forks to Sherlock.

“You can either add all of the silver to your game, or accept that John is going to be a spectator,” Mycroft finally said.

Greg looked over. Mycroft hadn’t moved in his seat. His head was tilted to the side, two fingers against his temple, elbow on the arm of the chair. He sounded not just bored, but a little irritated. “That’s a bit harsh.”

“Simple observation.”

John’s spine had straightened and his lips were working in a silent frown, refusing to look over at Mycroft. “Mycroft, you’re not even playing.”

“It’s not an insult, John, simply a fact.”

“And yeah, actually, it is an insult,” Greg cut in, scooping the cards together to shuffle. “So he had a couple of bad hands.”

“He overbid,” Mycroft said calmly.

“How the _hell_ can you...” John stopped himself, and turned to Sherlock. “You knew about this?”

Sherlock was trying not to smile. “Mycroft’s party trick. Yes. Some of my happiest childhood memories are of Mycroft not playing cards.”

“It isn’t a trick, Sherlock.”

“Performance piece,” Sherlock amended. 

Greg was amazed. The brothers weren’t actually fighting. Sherlock seemed proud of Mycroft, in fact. “Hang on, what are you talking about, you two?”

“May we deal you in, brother?” Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock’s smile widened slightly. He nodded at Greg without taking his eyes off Mycroft’s head. Greg looked across at John, who was still fuming futilely. Greg gave him a little grin, and started his deal with an extra hand on his left before continuing to John and Sherlock. “Right. Since two of us don’t know what’s about to happen, I’m gonna give us a chance. Five-card Draw, no blinds.”

John sighed a little, his fingers resting on the edge of the table to either side of his cards as Greg continued around. “Come on, Mycroft, let’s get this over with,” he said.

“No, no,” Sherlock said, almost purring. “He stays where he is. I’ll stake him - how much would you like?” He raised his voice at the end, fingering a small queue of matches from his pile of winnings.

“No more than twenty,” Mycroft answered.

“Fifteen it is,” Sherlock said, sliding ten paper matches and one wooden one across the table to the fourth pile of cards, next to Greg. 

“Don’t gloat, Sherlock - wasn’t that one of the rules?” Mycroft said patiently. 

“How is this supposed to work?” John demanded, exasperated. “You’re the opening bid! If you don’t even look at your cards...”

“I shall of course ante,” Mycroft interrupted. “How can I do anything else?”

Greg raised his eyebrows at John, and slid one of the paper matches from Mycroft’s pile into the center of the table before picking up his own cards. 

John gave up, shaking his head, and fanned his cards. He thought for a moment, then slid one match into the center. “I’m in.”

Sherlock added his own match without a word.

Greg glanced at them both, then nodded to himself. “And me. Mycroft, you want to draw?”

There was a pause. “No, thank you.”

“How the hell can he draw when he can’t see his cards?” John demanded.

“John, really, you’re only helping him,” Sherlock said.

“Fine. Fine. One.” He shoved a card at Greg, and added his replacement to his hand on the left, where he’d removed his old card.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Two.” He accepted the cards without a flicker, setting them into place.

“And the dealer...will take one. Mycroft?”

They all turned to watch. Mycroft took a deep breath, breathed out. “One.”

“You’re bidding one?” Greg asked, clarifying.

“Yes.”

Greg shrugged, but moved another of the matches from Mycroft’s pile.

John frowned at his cards, and kept glancing to the side at Mycroft’s chair. “I’ll raise. Three.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment.

“Sherlock,” John prodded.

“I’m in.” He added the requisite number of matches.

“I’ll raise. One.”

“Fold,” said Mycroft promptly.

Greg smiled, but was already watching John. “Well, Doc?”

“I’ll call,” John said.

“I’m out,” Sherlock said, folding his hands on his cards and sitting back.

“I’ll call,” Greg said, his voice even. He dropped his cards, face-up. “Three of a kind.”

“Fuck!” John blurted, slapping his cards down.

“No!” Sherlock said, almost simultaneously.

“Jesus!” John went on, ignoring him. “The first -”

“No, John!” Sherlock interrupted again. “We’re not done. Mycroft?”

“Two pair, faces and something middle to top, Greg had three, so... nines?”

John’s head swiveled toward Mycroft’s chair again. “What,” he said flatly.

“And mine?” Sherlock said.

“High pair. Cautious play from you. Kings or Aces?”

“Aces,” Sherlock told him. “And what did Greg have?”

“Eights,” Mycroft answered, with complete certainty.

“No, look, stop.” John spread his hands on the table again, striving for patience. “How? Because if there were cameras, that would mean power. Mirrors we would have noticed. So this is... I’m used to you two not making sense, but this is... _illegal._ ”

Sherlock snorted, laughing now. “I did tell you he’s far worse than I am,” he said to John. “I wanted to take him to a psychic’s stage show, once. He wouldn’t do it.”

“Hardly the most subtle,” Mycroft said, and through the disapproval, Greg could actually hear a little warmth, almost pleasure, not quite pride.

“Better than putting _you_ on the stage as the psychic,” Sherlock returned. “It’s like cold-reading, John. He won’t tell me everything, but he gets some of it from how we bid, our tells... The rest...” He shrugged.

“Yeah, but... how could you possibly know I had eights?” Greg cut in, craning his neck at Mycroft without straightening from his boneless slouch.

“Your bidding styles: Heroic, cautious, and too clever.”

Sherlock snorted again, this time not quite so amused. “ _Too_ clever, now?”

“He could have meant me,” Greg said, turning slowly to face Sherlock.

“So, what, I’m...” John began.

“Heroic,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Right. I suppose that’s like brave, then.”

“It’s not an insult,” Greg said, turning to John now.

“Yeah it is, actually. First time I met Mycroft, he said - actually _said_ \- that bravery was just a kind word for stupid.”

“I barely knew you, John,” Mycroft said mildly.

“You knew I’d come back from the war, you know about... fuck, you read my therapist’s notes. You abducted me and tried to bribe me.”

“And I told you you should have accepted,” Sherlock interrupted, turning to John with his thousand-yard stare. “I call you stupid all the time.”

“I’m allowed to hit you,” John shot back.

“Look, _hang on,_ ” Greg said, almost having to shout over them. “First off, no hitting. Secondly... _Jesus_ , I think it’s pretty clear that everyone in this room is clever enough to know that _no one_ in this room is anything _less_ than clever.” He glared at the look on John’s face, and plowed on. “If Sherlock is able to deduce someone’s lunch by the state of his shoes, I’m quite happy to concede that poker is not the right game for tonight.”

“What’s your counter-proposal then, hm?” John snapped.

“Well, one thing I know is not going to happen - after seeing you play poker, Mycroft, I am not going to let you anywhere _near_ a game of Risk.”


End file.
